


somewhere i have never travelled

by starcunning



Series: Incubus Ravenor [3]
Category: Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: F/M, Porn with Feelings, The Lacuna, guided masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23018602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcunning/pseuds/starcunning
Summary: Inquisitorial edict has seen Gideon Ravenor forbidden to use his psychic powers, which presents certain obstacles to overcome in his relationship with Patience Kys.
Relationships: Patience Kys/Gideon Ravenor
Series: Incubus Ravenor [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/111860
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	somewhere i have never travelled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAuthorman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAuthorman/gifts).



> Surprise, bitches. I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

It is the sunsets that give Hesperus their name, and the last rays of the sun paint the sky in violet-pink-orange, glimmering on the finials of the theatre. It has been a mild summer, I am told, but the long evenings and drowsy mood it engenders are well-suited to my purposes. 

I cannot help but think of how my purposes have changed as the people around us mill about beneath the theatre’s facade. Us, I say, because of course I have not come alone. Patience Kys is with me—as she has been with me for much of our time on Hesperus. A hand is splayed lightly over one of the glossy plates of my force chair, in much the same way other ladies rest their hands on their companions’ arms. 

“You look very dashing,” is her opinion, her green eyes resting upon my casket. Perhaps it is not the first word I would use for myself; I had gone so long without considering my physical form that it is a bit of a shock to be reminded that I have one, let alone that it is pleasing to someone’s eye. 

Certainly not when I consider how unrecognizable I am as a human being. When Patience looks upon me, she sees a casket of black, polished to a mirror sheen. This last I have not much bothered with in the years since I withdrew from the Inquisition’s service. For a moment I wonder if she imagines I mean to return to the Ordos. I dare not ask, so instead I say, “Thank you, Patience. You are as beautiful as ever.” 

It helps that I mean it. I have never beheld her with anything but a camera lens and my mind’s eye, but even at the remove of a pictcaster, she is and always has been stunning. No less so tonight than ever, and perhaps a deal more. As we enter the theatre and are ushered by a liveried attendant to the box I have reserved, I drink in the sight of her. Her dress is of black velvet, fitted to her form so closely that I cannot help but think of the bodygloves she once preferred. Its high neckline and long sleeves cover her from throat to wrist, and the drape of its hem brushes one ankle. The gathered velvet at her hip leaves the other leg tantalizingly bare to mid-thigh. It is an understated look, or would be if not for the impeccable tailoring and the intricate jewelry she has paired with it. 

As she takes her seat, the house lights glimmer upon the chain draped at her throat—and the wraithbone pendant that hangs from it. It is almost opalescent in the low light, but that is not what so captivates me about the sight. Its very presence is enough to arrest me, worn so close to her heart. It seems that each day I glimpse it, and each day it strikes me. We both know that it will not, cannot, aid me, but its presence serves as a reminder of her devotion. Not that I am ever likely to forget. 

“Sieur Ravenor,” the usher says as he withdraws. “Mamzel.” Patience smiles, privately amused. It is not the first time she has been mistaken for my wife, and she has never corrected them. In truth, neither have I—it seems poor form for me to do anything but follow her lead. There are times I have thought of giving truth to the lie, but even in better circumstances I could never bring myself to ask. 

They have left a bottle on ice for us, and Patience retrieves it, inspecting the label. “It’s always funny,” she says, “when they give us one of ours.” 

“Is it?” I wonder, and she turns the bottle so I can look upon it. The label does indeed bear an engraving of the estate we—I—purchased, where we have resided these past years. It was the library which was the attraction to me more so than the vineyards and orchards, but slowly we have grown comfortable there. Certainly it is more welcoming than Thracian Primaris, which played host to us for more than a decade prior to my official retirement. 

My thoughts on the Ordos, the Novena, the estates—all are pushed to the back of my mind as I watch her turn the bottle in her hands. Deftly she opens it with a soft pop; the cork gets away from her a moment, but she is an accomplished telekine and arrests it in the air a fraction of a second later. Then she pours—for me first and then herself. I cannot hope to drink from the slender flute, and have never tasted the wine from our vineyards, though she has described them to me in as much detail as she can. Nevertheless, she always pours for me, whether out of longing or love. 

Perhaps the two are not so different. I thank her, and am still pondering the matter when the house lights dim. She takes her ease, and her hand finds my warm chassis once more. With the other hand she lifts her glass in toast, and then sets her elbow on the padded edge of the box, leaning forward with interest. 

If she’s been left a program she hasn’t read it, and I am glad enough of that as darkness takes the theatre. I can see the stage lights come up, but little else until I adjust the rise of my chair. It doesn’t matter: for me, the only show is her. The evening’s entertainment is a selection of pastoral themes, and sets and costuming are minimal. The music is the thing, perfectly audible to me. At times it strikes a resonance so sweet I can feel the entirety of my force chair hum with it, and it sings through what little is left of my body. Patience can feel this through her fingertips, and steals a glance at me, and I can think of no sight more perfect than her face rimmed in dancing light, looking at me with so much love in her eyes. 

The evening passes thus, and as much as I long to be the sort of man who might rest his hand fondly upon her knee, as the moment approaches I find myself almost glad to be reduced to this. What would otherwise be a nervous glance becomes the impassive whine of a pictcaster, and she is not discomfited by the force of my gaze as I watch her. 

Much of the evening’s music has been Hespertine, but the next piece begins in a minor key not favored here. It is— _was_ —much more popular in the _tagelieder_ of the Kell Mountains, among other folk songs. Patience sits up slightly, and leans forward, interested. I have kept much of the work of composition from her; our partnership is such that she throws light into a cave and I record how the shadows dance. Still, it seems I have done half my dreaming in Gudrunite folk songs over the past year, and the thought cannot leave me that somehow she knows. 

The lyrics, too, are unfamiliar to her; I can read this in the furrow of her brow. It is a man’s song, rich and bassy, and the vocal line is simple. Pure, in a way; uncomplicated—rather like the hero that sings it. 

“What, did I love thee then, and say it not?” the singer intones, and Patience’s sharp gaze whips from the stage back to me. 

She whispers, soft and very quick, “I did; still do. No leave have I to speak. I’ll say it not, and hold thee in my heart.” 

The man on stage repeats the sentiment even as she is still speaking, and I feel at once the warm glow of satisfaction at her recognition. She knows this lyric, has heard me wrestle with it in the imperfect tones of my voxponder. But she says no more then, only listens, her gaze resting upon me all the while. She takes her hand from me to find a handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes before tears disturb her kohl. 

At the performance’s end, the audience claps, doubtless enthused by the announcement that the composer is in attendance. None louder than she, and her soft, devoted look is replaced with something more ardent; an adoration she reserves for the times I have done something truly special. 

I am more pleased by that than any other ovation I could receive. 

Our carriage awaits without, at the head of a line of groundcars. Patience, still smiling her quiet adulation, finds voice enough to speak. “We do stand out, don’t we.” 

“I suppose that was an inevitability,” I say. 

Her smile grows cheeky. “Renowned composer Gideon Ravenor,” she says. “The public attention doesn’t bother you? All those people staring?” 

“I don’t think they’re staring at me,” I tell her. “They’re staring at the incredibly gorgeous woman with me.” 

She smothers her smile with one hand as though embarrassed, glancing back at the people watching us. Then she settles herself in the carriage, and I take my place opposite her. The door closes and once more we are alone. 

“ _That’s_ what you’ve been working on?” are the first words to leave her mouth. 

“What we’ve been working on, yes,” I agree. 

Patience laughs. “No, _I’ve_ been growing flowers in darkness. Is this really what all those Gudrunite histories were for?” 

“They are,” I admit. 

“Throne, Gideon, I thought you were just writing, I don’t know, a paper about Elmingard.” 

“In a way, I am. Perhaps I feel I owe it to them.” 

She reaches out to touch me. “You thoughtful man,” she names me. “But then why did I catch the strains of a Sameter love song in the woodwinds section?” 

I would be blushing, if I could blush. “Artistic fancy,” I suggest. 

“It’s an old one, too,” she says. “My mother said _her_ grandmother would sing it to her.” 

“Allow me this single point of syncretism,” I say. “I cannot guarantee the leitmotif won’t appear elsewhere. I wondered if you would recognize it.” 

“Of course I recognized it,” she says, and laughs. Her laugh is so wonderful, and equally so is the way her pendant glimmers as she does. “What’s the play about?” 

“The Lady of Elmingard and the shepherd who loves her,” I tell her. 

“It was a parting song,” she says, lapsing into thoughtful silence. “About inevitability—the inability to stop the sun from rising, the necessity of their separation. They don’t end up together, do they.” 

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “I haven’t written it yet. What I do know is that he means it when he pledges to keep her in his heart; when he says that daylight nor duty may not kill his love.” 

“What about her?” Patience wonders. 

I sigh, a rushing glissando escaping my voxponder. It is an ugly sound, but she hears it for what I intend. “She is more complicated,” I say. “Her meter is more complicated, her melodies are more complicated—I have one or two of them almost finished. Her motives are more complicated.” 

“Her loyalties are divided,” Patience surmises, and I am glad she cannot note the surprise I feel. 

“Well, Gideon,” she continues after a moment, “far be it from me to give orders to an Inquisitor, but if I were a lady of Sarte Province, I think I know what legacy I’d rather have.” She begins to turn her face away, to gaze out the windows of the carriage at the streets slipping by. 

“Your name comes first on the folio,” I say. 

“What?” I have her full attention again, and she looks like she’s swallowed a bug. 

“I haven’t decided what to call it yet,” I admit, “but it’s by Patience Kys and Gideon Ravenor.” 

“That seems a bit much,” she says, scoffing. 

I want to shake my head at her, or at least to touch her mind so that she can feel the emotions behind the monotone I am forced to speak in. But that avenue is closed to me. Instead I simply say, “The work wouldn’t be what it is without your aid, and I thought it best to reflect that. If you want it.” 

“I don’t know,” she laughs. “I guess I’ll decide once you’ve written the ending.” 

At the gates of the estate we pause and the footman debarks. No one, not even we, are immune to security’s inspection. There are many things I miss about having the full use of my mind, but the uncertainty inherent in not knowing the contents of my driver’s head vexes me more than most. My enemies have not retired with me. Patience bears it well enough; she is more accustomed to it than I in any case, and I think I catch her humming a particular phrase of song. When the footman returns to let us know we’re cleared, she gestures him to a halt. 

“I don’t want to go back to the house just yet,” she says. “Will you let us off at the grove, please.” 

“Of course, Mamzel Kys,” the footman tells her, and a moment later we are moving again, veering away from the drive that leads to the manor. Patience folds her hands patiently and looks out over the grounds. 

“What are you about?” I can’t help but wonder. 

She turns to look at me. “I simply want to take an evening walk,” she says. “I hope you’ll join me.” 

“Obviously,” I say, and for once the dry tone of my voxponder is a perfect match for my intent. 

Not too long after, the carriage halts, and I can see the bowed branches of the trees, dark against the violet sky. Patience and I step out into the night, and she takes a deep breath. There is the crunching of gravel behind us and then we are alone together beneath the trees. The space between rows is as wide as the aisle of the Grand Templum of Thracian Primaris, and the branches overhead suggest nothing so much as vaults, making a cathedral of the night sky. In the darkness she touches me—I can see it in the pictcaster lenses and my sensors tell me of the contact, though I cannot feel it. She breathes again, slowly. 

She says, “The evening stock is in bloom, and I can smell rain on the air. It won’t come until morning.” These details she offers for my benefit. Unprompted she can describe for me the taste of her afternoon tea or the scent of the nuts drying in the branches overhead. 

“Is it cold?” I wonder. 

She shakes her head, her unbound hair tumbling over her shoulders, and for a moment I imagine the wash of perfume that such a gesture might spill into the air. “Not at all,” she says, and at last begins to walk. The pathways are paved with flat stones, and I can hear the sound of her heels as they strike the surface. Less immediate is the call of night birds and the hum of insects. 

Beyond the grove of trees the path rambles between gardens and down over the ha-ha to wilder lawns. She remarks now and then on the scent of a flower or the way the wind feels upon her skin, the tall grass brushing at her bare leg, but we go otherwise in companionable silence. 

At least until she has another question to offer me. “Did you ever think you would live in a place like this?” Patience wonders. 

I consider it. “No,” I admit. “At the Progenium, all my dreams were of my work. The great things I would do. What I would contribute to mankind. When I entered into Eisenhorn’s service, I began to imagine that, like him, I would make my home upon Thracian. When he moved to Gudrun, I suppose I thought I would live there too. But I bear little love for Thracian, and Gudrun bears little love for me, so I could embrace neither possibility.” 

“Spaeton House,” Patience murmurs. 

“Yes,” I say. 

“Kara told me, once. I thought it was a country estate, too?” 

“Spaeton House was not a working manor,” I tell her. “Its gardens were largely ornamental and its grounds not so sprawling as these. What about you?” 

She glances at me and looks away again. “There are farms on Sameter, of course,” she says. 

“The subsector leader in wheat production, as I understand,” I supply. 

“I visited one when I was a girl.” Memory takes hold of her voice, slowing her speech, and her gaze goes distant with the effort of recollection. “Before my sisters were born. It didn’t appeal to me much. I thought I would live and die on my homeworld, maybe never even leave Urbitaine.” I can hear the quiet lap and rush of water, and a little ways ahead the tall grasses bow to the lobelias, and beyond those I can see the fronds of the sedges. “And now I’m a proper country mamzel,” she laughs. 

“The Lady of Belcourt,” I venture to suggest. 

She laughs. “Stop,” she tells me; “you’ll make me blush.” 

I dare no further, then, until we come to a stop. The lake is laid before us, its surface placid but for the small waves that break upon the shore. There is a mountain range opposite, and its shadow blots out the stars that prick the sky, the image redoubled faintly in reverse upon the glass of the water. 

“Thank you,” she says at last. “It was a lovely evening.” 

I long to smile. “It is the least you deserve,” I tell her. “I wish I could have spent it with you properly.” 

She sweeps her hand along the surface of the chair, smiling wryly down at me. “It’s not as though you were left much choice,” she tells me. 

There is a pang of disappointment in her tone which I cannot help but suspect I put there by my carelessness in drawing attention to the fact. How much more disappointed would she be to know that there was a choice, and this was what I decided I could live with? It pains me now, sure enough; anyone may look at Patience Kys, or listen to her. Far more intimate is to touch her, to breathe of her scent, to know the taste of her mouth and of her body. It is the lover’s suite of senses I have sacrificed, and I long to tell her for what I have done this; what could drive me back into the dark confines of my body. 

“I love you, you know,” she says before I can speak, and her green eyes are upon me. They are heavy with warmth. “There is no improper way for you to be with me. That you _are_ with me is what matters.” 

How can I tell her now? I can’t conceive of it; there is no way. I do not wish to dwell any longer on Gregor Eisenhorn, and I shut the memory away again in favor of the present. I wish to think only of Patience Kys, and so I say, “I love you, Patience.” 

“Hold me?” she suggests. 

I cannot hum an affirmation or motion her closer, so I am reduced to saying, “Yes.” 

She is graceful even as she mounts my chair. The velvet is slippery against the glossy plates, but she finds a place to brace her heels against the mountings where my forward psycannons once were, and settles in, finding her balance with ease. Then she leans back, stretching and settling against me as though nestling to my chest, and sighs with contentment. She lifts a hand to rake back her hair, and turns her head to regard me—to look me in the eye, as it were, her gaze fixed upon the nearest pictcaster lens. I look back at her and regard her profile—stark and lovely, pale against the waves of her dark hair; beyond her, the stars. I study it for a moment, committing it to memory in all of its perfection. “Gideon,” she says, rolling my name about in her mouth like fine amasec. 

“Yes?” 

“Read me a poem.” 

I am helpless before that request, and a moment later I am reciting something—a piece of Terran poetry from before Old Night. It seems dashed to fragments upon the millennia between the day of its writing and this night of my recitation. My delivery is halting; my voxponder is an imperfect instrument, a poor one, even, and yet I have no other voice to give. The poem I read as a boy and memorized when I was whole has slept in me—in the deepest part of me that is a poet; that is a lover; that is anything other than an Imperial Inquisitor—and now I wake it to give it to her. She is a rapt audience, her secret smile unfurling like petals touched by spring’s hand, and when I am done she sighs with contentment. 

“I expected something else,” she admits. “Moments like these serve to remind me that so much of you is obscured from me. I have never known what is in your thoughts the way you have, and while it’s a delight to be surprised, sometimes I wish …” 

“What?” I prompt. 

“That it were given to me to know,” she concludes. Her hand finds her pendant, turning it about on its chain so that it lays against her chest once more. I can feel the chair dip slightly as she shifts her weight, shimmying her hips down, and hear the whisper of velvet as it spills over the side of my coffin. “Will you tell me?” she wonders. 

“What I’m thinking?” 

“It can be anything,” she says. “I just want to hear your voice.” Her hands skim down over the surface of the chair until they find her hips, and I can watch her run them over her thighs, small and skillful. Poised as though to act, as though it is a mystery what should unfold next. But I know her, even if I cannot touch my mind to hers; I know the ache of her longing. 

“Give me your hands,” I tell her. 

“I can’t,” she says. “Not the way we used to.” 

“But you may surrender them nonetheless.” 

She laughs, turning her head to glance back at me, and her dark lips part in a smile. “Alright,” she says. 

I shift my vision from one lens to another, drinking in the sight of her splayed out atop me, her long legs pale in the moon, her dress as dark as my ersatz body, or darker still for the fact that the moonlight does not gleam upon it. The pendant is a pearl of white in that sea of blackness, no less luminous than her eyes. “Look at me,” I tell her, adjusting my focus. The telltale whine has her gaze snap to regard me once more, and she smiles. Her fingers twitch with anticipation, nails tapping against the plates of my force chair. “Lift your hands,” I instruct, and she is eager to obey. They linger just over the bare skin of her thighs, and a clicking noise issues from my voxponder. “We’ll start you above the waist and over your clothes. At your neck, I think.” 

She is eager to obey, her elegant fingers splayed over her throat and rubbing at her collarbone. The silver chain of her necklace tangles between her fingers as she strokes herself through the velvet, petting it this way and back as the heel of her palm skims along her breastbone. Her other hand skims upward along her side as though to cup one breast. 

“Not yet,” I tell her, and a soft groan escapes her as she trails her fingers over her stomach instead. Her dark lips part to taste the night air, and even in the dimness I can see the flush beginning to rise upon her cheeks. She skims a thumb along her own jaw and rakes a hand through her hair, and to watch her caress herself so is intoxicating. She arches and adjusts atop me, and I can feel it just slightly in the way the motion rocks my chair. When she settles, I speak again. “Touch your breasts now.” Her delicate hands sweep into position, and I have to laugh. “ _Not_ your nipples,” I correct sharply. “Stroke the curve of them, run your fingernails around the outside of your nipples, but don’t touch them until I say.” 

The whimper that escapes her is exquisite. She skims both hands down over her stomach and back up again, cupping her breasts, crushing velvet beneath her fingers to coax sensation through the cloth. She takes a deep breath and allows it to escape her in a sigh as she fondles herself, lifting her chin a moment. Her hips roll too, not quite arching herself atop me, but even at this remove I know the impulse for what it is. She lifts her hands to trace tightening spirals over the cloth, and from my vantage it is not difficult to see the tension building in her legs. 

“Gideon,” she whines, and if I could smile I would. In my name there is a plea, but I am not yet minded to indulge it. 

“You wanted so badly to touch your thighs,” I remind her. “Now you will.” 

She shudders, but her hands dutifully skim down over her stomach. She splays her fingers out atop her thighs a moment, then lets her knees fall more fully open. Her dark, painted nails skim over the supple flesh of her inner thighs, and she groans. I watch her tease and caress herself, her eyes lidded and more than a little hazy. One hand drifts upward, and she runs the nail of her thumb along the hem of her panties. It slips beneath the fabric just above her mound. 

“Patience,” I say, and she snaps from her reverie. “Keep your hands _above_ your clothing.” 

“Please,” she pants. 

How can I deny her? The sound of her in need is too lovely. “Touch yourself,” I command. 

“Over the—?” 

“Yes,” I reply, and if it’s more sharply than I meant it to be, the voxponder robs it of much of its bite. She understands my urgency just the same, and wastes little time in skimming her fingers over the soft cloth. It clings close to her skin as she rocks herself against the length of her fingers, teasing at her labia with slow touches. She wants this to last as much as I do, I imagine, but I can see how that desire wars with her mounting need. She shifts her weight, grasping at the waistband of her underwear, and when she settles it is drawn taut. When she strokes herself once more, she tilts her hips with the motion, and the damp silk drawn against her skims over her clit. 

I watch her, entranced, and imagination strikes me for a moment. I feel as though I am a nighttime visitor perched at the end of her bed, watching her. But in those tales it is she who ought to be bespelled, and I am far too enraptured by the sight of her. Her chest rises and falls with each panting breath, and when she finds my eyes again her tongue darts out to wet her lips. 

“Gideon,” she moans. 

“Yes?” 

“Gideon, I need … I need more.” 

“You’ll have more when I give you more,” I promise her. 

She lets out a low whine. Her calves are taut, her muscles tense as though she longs to arch herself against me, to coax further touch somehow. 

“Circle your clit,” I instruct. “With your other hand you may touch your nipples now.” 

Her following groan is as much relief as anything else, and she settles against me once more. I can watch her stirring the fabric slowly, and there is a glow upon her brow as her other hand drifts upward, following the curves of her body. She does not attack her own pleasure swiftly, and I am surprised at her self-restraint as she fondles herself and traces slow circles with each hand, stoking her pleasure slowly. When she pinches at her nipple at last, it elicits a long, low groan. 

Even if she can live up to the aspirations of her name, I find myself less willing. It is a curious reversal, though I take it in stride. 

“Take your panties off,” I tell her. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” she says, amusement in her tone despite the breathlessness of it. She pulls her hands away a moment later, arching atop me to do as I have asked. The damp cloth dangles about one ankle when she braces her heels against me once more, and with her mind she sweeps aside the drape of her skirt. When she relaxes atop me, she is bare from the waist down, the curve of her ass resting against the warmth of my chair. 

“Elbows at your sides,” I say. “Just one finger for now. Feel how wet you are for me.” Her brow knits, but she voices no protest, running the length of her finger along her vulva, between her folds. She gasps, perhaps from the contact, though equally likely is her surprise at her own arousal, which has hardly been a secret to me. Even divorced from sensation as I am, I can still see the way her honey clings to her, coats her finger, glimmering in the dim light. “Go on,” I tell her. “Press into it.” She lifts her hips and does, and I watch it sink into her. Her other hand skims down over her body, grasping at the inside of her thigh as though to pull her leg back, to open herself to me. “Good,” I say. “Do you want another?” 

“Yes,” she mewls, so I allow her that, watching her rock against her hand. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open, the sounds that escape her drowning out the world for me. All of existence is bounded by the confines of a single lens, focused on her. “Gideon,” she whines. 

“Touch your clit,” I tell her. 

She lets go of her thigh to press two fingers into her mouth, licking and sucking at them until they shine, too, and she presses them between her legs, the heel of her other hand trapping them in place. She rocks against both hands now, those fingers plunging into her even as she grinds her clit against the seam between her other fingers, pressed together against it. 

“Throne,” she gasps. “I want you.” 

“You have me,” I tell her. “I am touching you. How does it feel, Patience?” 

Her answer comes first as a moan that rises into a whine. “Like aching,” she says. “Like every bit of me is exposed to all the world, waiting to be touched.” Her breathy voice makes my heart beat faster, and of all the incredible things I have witnessed in my life, somehow this seems the least likely and most precious of all. Another gasp parts those dark lips, and I watch her lick at them again. Her hands are trembling, and I focus on the sight before my attention shifts back to her face, her knit brow, locked in concentration and effort. 

“Gideon,” she pleads. “You have to let me come.” 

Far be it from me to stop her. “Come for me, Patience,” I say. The voxponder is as dry as ever, but she shudders like I’ve purred it into her ear; like she can hear me speak—truly speak—to her. She lifts her hips, holding herself some few inches off the planes of the chassis, her touch grown feverish. 

“Gideon,” she whimpers again. She has a thousand ways to say my name, but perhaps best of all is how she gasps it in moments like these. My name is always on her lips at the end. 

I am gripped by a sense of pride and satisfaction as I watch her, shuddering, spend herself at my hand—at the hands she has given me. I love her, and the deepest part of me holds tight to this fact—too near to touch, only near enough to be felt. I cannot touch her either, not in the ways others might recognize, but her hands have been mine and I do feel closer to her. More connected, despite the insurmountable remove. 

She lays slack atop me, against me, wraithbone glittering as she pants to catch her breath. I switch back to the lens nearest her face, watching her nestle against me. That delightful flush still clings to her cheeks, just above the soft curve of her smile. She has her silence then, and all the sounds of the night and the lake I have forgotten come back to me one by one. 

We lay there a long while beneath the quiet infinity of the stars, and do not speak until we do. 

“Are you cold?” I ask her. 

“I’m getting there,” Patience admits. “Should we go back?” 

A thought strikes me. “I could carry you.” 

She smiles at me, tapping a finger against my coffin just beside the lens. The effect is like unto her brushing back my hair. “I’d rather walk beside you,” she says. “I might fall asleep otherwise.” 

That thought doesn’t seem so terrible to me, but I don’t press. She finds her feet again once more, taking a moment to put herself to rights, and then her hand rests against me once more. 

We go back to the manor house together. 


End file.
